


Nothing Special

by thefoxandthewren



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Drinking Games, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Heartache, Heartbreak, Minor Violence, Non-Explicit, Rape/Non-con Elements, Semi-Public Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-03-14 17:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18952570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefoxandthewren/pseuds/thefoxandthewren
Summary: Alternate Timeline: After the Battle of Blackwater, when Sansa says no to being taken, Sandor returns to the battle, fights with such vigor that he is pardoned of his outbursts. Time passes, Sansa's skin becomes thicker, her mind sharper, but she still has a long way to go. Sandor admires the little birds sharpened claws and does his best to look out for her in the lion's den.Events include: masquerades, whippings, the Festival of the Seven, drinking games, late-night lemon cakes, heartbreak, angst!Updated every 3-7 days.(Side note: there will be Margaery x Sansa... it's basically the threesome you never knew you needed!)24/07/2019:**** small hiatus while I do some moving and traveling, I hope you are all having a lovely summer ♡****





	1. Sandor: Flesh and Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is whipped in the throne room, for pleasure, for pain, for something Joffrey can jerk off to later.  
> Sandor and Shae have to watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I am more than this frame,  
> I feel hurt and I feel shame  
> I just wish you would feel the same  
> And I am more than these bones  
> I feel love, I feel alone  
> I just wish you would come home  
> My body's weak  
> I feel my heart giving up on me  
> I'm worried it might just be  
> My body's weak,  
> Feel my lungs giving up on me  
> I'm worried it might just be  
> Something my soul needs  
> \- Keaton Henson

Sansa Stark isn't anything special. She simply isn't. The words resonate around and around in Sandor Clegane's mind as he stands dutifully by the King's side. There wasn't anything special the first time they met and there's nothing special now. The words ring true... Enough. But if she's as ordinary as everyone else, why does she spark the interest of monsters like no other can? Why did she appeal to the worst?

He groups himself into that category without question.

She stands before them now, chin up. The sunset casts a glow over her, and instead of being cool water blue, her level eyes are valyrian steel; her hair catching the light and throwing off copper and gold rays, she looks as if made of embers. Swallowing, he shifts uncomfortably in the shade.

He's watched her mature, watched her adapt and tactfully choose her battles, might be this is why he feels some semblance of interest in the girl. She's been one of the longest survivors here in the lion's den.

"Lady Sansa," Joffrey's drawl echoes in the room, it's a small crowd today, he didn't know if that made it better or worse, "You know why you're here?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Sandor admires the calm of her voice, but his curiosity bursts - what happened today?

"Very well, let's get on with it. Bring out the wench." Joffrey waves his hand impassively, and the Hound's interest spikes further, though no sign of it appears on his face. Keeping his features unwavering, he watches as the little bird's handmaiden is brought before the small gathering. Her dress billows around her as two of the Kingsguard marches her into the centre, her chin just as high as Sansa's, though her eyes frantically flit from one face to another and her skirts are bunched into her small fists. She catches Sansa's gaze with a question in her eyes, the little bird grits her jaw and, if he hadn't been paying such close attention, he would have missed the barest shake of her head.

"Shae, is it?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Her voice has a slight lilt to it.

"Shae," His smile is grim and ice begins to freeze the Hound's guts, "For your crimes, of which there are many, Lady Sansa has agreed to take your punishment. That's very kind of her, isn't it?"

"Yes. Your Grace." Her voice is smaller, and she visibly swallows, tears forming.

"The least you could do is watch," The ice swells and, with a nod, one of the men beside her whacks the back of her legs with a staff, forcing the girl to crumble to the floor.

"Make sure she watches." Joffrey sneers before calling out for Sers Meryn and Blount. They appear, Meryn with a whip and Blount with a large pail of water. The Hound's stomach is now thoroughly frozen; it starts to creep up his chest.

Sansa studies the two guards quickly and then, squaring her shoulders, allows her gaze to settle on the King, her defiance - or courage, depending on how you look at it - is not well received.

"She needs to take off that heavy dress."

Ser Meryn reaches with both hands to rip the thing off her, she carefully dodges his meaty fists causing everyone to lurch forward suddenly. She holds up both hands as if to calm a wild animal.

"This dress was a gift from the Queen, I think she would prefer not to see it ruined," She dares him to say otherwise as she slowly reaches to undo her dress. The assembly is entranced as the material falls to the floor in a heap and the girl stands in her satin, shell shift, opaque but thin, clinging to her curves in all the right places. Sandor's eyes sweep the room, wanting to know if anyone is a risk to this girl. Anyone _else_ is a risk.

"Fetch, dog."

The Hound gathers her materials in a bundle and stays, much closer but off to the side, so as not to... _distract_ from the show. She doesn’t look at him. He tries not to look at her. Setting grey eyes on the door, thinking of snow and how it sticks and it’s dense and heavy and that’s how his insides feel right now.

The pail is brought before her.

"Kneel."

Meryn brings the staff that had been used on the handmaiden to strike across the back of the little bird's legs with a resounding crack but she doesn’t fall as Shae did. She waits for the briefest of moments and then kneels of her own accord. The frost flourishes along his shoulders.

"10 lashings for your own involvement and 90 for Shae's crimes... the bucket's just for me." He laughs and most of the crowd joins in.

Ser Blount crouches next to her, she brings her small hands to rest on the lip of the bucket, Blount's hand grabs the hair at the nape of her neck, gathering handfuls of the sunset curls in his dirty fingers, angling her awkwardly, his other hand steadies himself on one knee, the two guards’ eyes snap to Joffrey, but Sansa's rest on his own. He holds it. The cold inside him shifts, soft flurry to sharp shards, snow to icicles like the ones that line the trees of Winterfell. A breath passes between them. Two.

The blow happens first. She gasps in pain and surprise as the whip rakes her back. Her head is forced under. Sandor wants to snap and howl and bare his teeth at the sheer cruelty. He remains stoic. Shae screams and the lashings persist, her head still in the bucket. Nails breaking and bleeding fingers, she tries to haul herself out of the water, the sound of her dainty fingers scrabbling along the splintered wood spreads the ice inside him even more, accompanied now by nausea. Counting the whips, his stomach clenches uncomfortably, she'd only taken 10 when they let her up for air. Spluttering and gasping, she tries to struggle, all form of composure gone now, she fights Blount as he returns her to the water but, aside from the gasps, she doesn't make a sound. She doesn’t shout, doesn’t cry. The lashings continue.

The handmaiden's screams turn to sobs as Sansa begins to still. Her back hardly twitching when the 97th lash tears into her, the water stills and her hands slide from the side, her knuckles grazing the stone and suddenly Blount isn't holding her down anymore, but holding her _up_. Sandor doesn't realize he's moving until he sees his own foot kicking Blount aside, he lets go of the girl and she doesn't come up. Doesn't even twitch. The ice has poured to every crevice of his body, even his burnt scars feel cold. He fights the urge to freeze, to shatter, and instead flips her out of the pail and onto her back, her lips are blue, cheeks white, their usual pink flush disappeared, he compresses her chest, blowing puffs of air down her throat, pinching her nose.

_Gods_ , _please._

He hopes he's doing it right. He'd seen a fishmonger do this for a child once. Distantly, he's aware of Joffrey's shrieks, but he doesn't care. She can't leave him, not like this.

Eyelashes fluttering, she folds over to her side and empties half the bucket that made its way into her lungs. The movement causing her to turn, he winces at the sight of her back; sliced satin crisscrossed with shredded skin, her bright blood in strips, making him think of ribbons. She's coughing and choking and he wants to touch her but doesn't know where without sending her into a world of hurt. He settles for her hair, sweeping it away from her back so none of those auburn strands gets caught in her ripped skin and twists it over her shoulder, she looks up at him, eyes bloodshot and lip quivering, and takes his hand. He wastes no time then, bundling her up into his arms and stalking from the procession. She lets the tears fall, and clutches the dress to her chest as he leads them away, he doesn't stop until they're inside her chambers.

Halting when he sees the bed, he ponders a moment, he'd been carrying her tenderly - one arm looped under her knees and the other gingerly across the very tops of her shoulders - but now he's unsure if the bed is the best place for her.

"Lay me on my front... Please." The manoeuvre is awkward but she weighs next to nothing, a handful of feathers really. A growl is ripped from his throat as the door flings open, he finishes laying her down and turns, reaching for his sword, but it's just the handmaiden and a maester, he can already smell the medicines. Thankfully, neither of them notice his behaviour.

Shae is still sobbing, he glowers, her punishment was barely a slap on the wrist compared to his little bird.

"Shae, are you all right?" Her voice is strained, and it’s so like her to care for another after the beating she’s just taken. He doesn’t move from her side as the maid kneels beside the bed, she reaches out to touch her but he steps forward, hesitantly.

"Hold my hand while he applies the salve." Sansa has more strength than she realizes and if she put that strength onto someone who can't withstand it... She would feel bad. He could help in this aspect at least.

Her blue eyes refuse to look at his face, substituting all her focus onto the rough, calloused hand he holds out for her, darker skin next to her soft, pale palms. Taking note of her bleeding fingertips, he motions for the maester to look over them when he’s finished with her back. She grabs him so tightly; he can feel her pulse thundering like the hooves of a horse. The shift is cut away, the threads thrown to the sides and if this were any other time, if she had the fire in her eyes that he’s been witness to so often, and if her lips weren't so fucking blue he probably would have enjoyed the view. A quick clean and then the salve is being applied and her head is thrown back with a cry.

He was right to take her hand, she squeezes, hard, and she keeps squeezing until every lash is cleaned and dressed. Stronger than she knows. When she passes out, he rubs his thumb over the skin of her knuckles, the weakest of apologies, and places her hand by her side.

Shae had helped with the dressing and bandaging, her eyes red-rimmed and lips bruised from trying to stifle her snivelling. She walks him to the door, sniffing as she opens it, he gives a quick glance back over Sansa's unconscious form and the walls of her room. Her lips still look so blue, her hair sticking to her cheeks and the skin shining with a faint sheen of sweat.

"Do you think-?"

He glances at the maid, "What?"

"Maybe she would have been better if you hadn't brought her back."

He doesn't move a muscle, "Keep her warm, build a fire."

It's not until later that he realizes what Shae had meant, the idea has him seething with rage. To allow the Lannister's victory over another dead Stark. No. They couldn't have it. Not her. Not Arya. Not the girl who endured and the girl who ran. If the smaller one has even a fraction of self-preservation as her sister then he had no doubt that the wolf-bitch was living. They were survivors, yet.


	2. Sansa: Lung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sinking in the dark,  
> Can somebody pick me up?  
> The voice is too loud  
> I'm losing in the crowd,  
> Because I can't breathe.  
> \- Vancouver Sleep Clinic

_Pain_.

Pain is the foremost feeling in her right now. It’s everywhere, a dull ache on her knees, a sharp prickle in her fingertips, a throbbing in the muscles of her stomach, an empty clench in her lungs, and a harsh stinging across her back. Her eyes are crusted closed and when she reaches up to rub them her back stretches and she cries out, skin taught and wounds reopening. She remembers everything.

Remembers the smack of the staff as it hit the back of her legs, the cold stone under her knees and the rotting wood of the bucket as she gripped it in her hands, the cringe as Blount had touched her. She remembers the whip that lashed her dress and skin, turning them into one warbled combination of thread and blood. The cold, cold water and wondering how they had managed to get it to be so cold when it was so warm here, the struggle to breathe and how her body had disconnected from her mind near the end. Every muscle had protested, had shrieked inside her to fight back to do something but another part of her, somewhere dark and distant had told her to let go. Relish in the cold, cold water that reminded her of her mother – blue eyes, Tully blue; cold, cold water blue – and her father, and his eyes could be cold too, but they weren’t blue, they were grey. Grey. And then she’d been thinking about _him_ , and the grey eyes of her father morphed into the grey eyes of the Hound. Then he had met her gaze – a stare she had grown used to and even fond of, a stare so intense that she sometimes remembers the feel of it while she sleeps - and she had found strength in it before she was shoved into the bucket again and again.

So, she had fought for as long as she could, not the squirming, running sort of fight that her body longed for, but the take-it-like-a-lady fight that has somehow become her own signature. She had tried her best to just keep breathing, but with every cut digging deeper and her blood cooling, the edges around her eyes had started to blacken. Her lungs had filled and she had no choice, she fought hard but it wasn’t enough. She had drifted.

She doesn’t know if she had managed to fulfil her punishment before she had been dragged out, awoken choking and heaving and so sore. But he had been there. The Hound had pulled her back and then pulled her _up_. Up into his arms, up into warmth and air and life. He had held her hand while she’d been cleaned and bandaged.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, part pain, part sorrow, part relief. She still had friends in this little cage of hers. Ser Clegane had saved her _again_. She would need to find a way to repay him for his kindness.

Sansa stares into the fire, it’s darker outside than she realized and the warmth of the brazier wafts over her lulling her back into sleep and recovery, her body working hard to repair itself. Wandering mind and drooping eyes, she thinks again about _why_ the Hound would save her. She knows he doesn’t receive any sort of gratification from her beatings but it gives Joffrey the opportunity to dole out repercussions when he interferes. Maybe he feels some sort of… responsibility? Although, while he _is_ Joffrey’s sworn shield, he doesn’t seem the responsible type. There’s something about that thought that lifts the slenderest of weight from her back. She smiles as she drifts back into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who has taken an interest in this! I'd love to hear your thoughts, I have the book series sitting in my bedroom, untouched for the moment, all my fantasies are based on the television series alone (save for the grey eyes of Sandor Clegane), so I apologise for any misinterpretations that you come across.  
> Another note, I have four my chapters in my personal archive and this one is by far the smallest, you will receive lengthier/more detailed/smuttier stuff later on, I swear, but I'm also trying to build angst and tension and, well, we'll just have to see how that goes. I'll try to upload a chapter every 3-7 days, depending on length. Much love and appreciation, Wren x


	3. Sandor: Ocean Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Careful creature,  
> Made friends with time,  
> He left her lonely with a diamond mind,  
> And those ocean eyes.  
> \- Billie Eilish

He didn’t return to the throne room when he left her chambers, instead making his way through town, drinking deep into his cups. When nothing could take his mind from the battering of the evening, when the giggles of whores were drowned out by the remnants of the handmaiden's cries and the warm red burns cold down his throat, he stumbles back to his quarters, settling on the edge of his bed and raking his hands through his hair. His thumb twinges slightly, but he welcomes the ache, a reminder that she survived another one. Studying his hand under the light he presses his mouth to the half-moon circles where what was left of her nails had dug in, and the bloom of yellows and purples that would turn into bruises. It wasn't a kiss, just a gentle touch of palm to lips and the smallest sigh. He let himself fall back onto the bed like that. His eyes closed but he could still see the pretty red ribbons. They churn his stomach all night long.

Three days go by. Three days and four nights since the little bird left her room to take the lashings and had nearly died for it. Three days and four nights without seeing or hearing of any progress. His face is clear of concerns for the girl, he can't let anyone know that he has even a sliver of interest. But he _is_ concerned - how is no one talking about it? No news of recovery reaches his ears. He wonders if maybe there was an infection that crawled into her skin, or maybe he had crushed one of her ribs when he squashed her chest, or maybe there was still water left in her lungs. The fourth day passes much like the others, without any word of her wellbeing, the agitation becomes too much. If he goes without update another day his mask will surely slip.

Fuck it. When the sun settles, he climbs the stairs to her room, two at a time, silently. He tests her door, surprised to find it unbarred.

"Little bird? Can I come in?"

There’s no answer and he debates leaving, you wouldn't think he debates it with how quickly he sneaks into her room and locks the door, but he really does, honest. He looks over to her and sucks in a sharp breath. She’s almost exactly as he left her. The bandages have been changed recently, he can see from the little light of the moon and a few candles, they had cleaned her body as best they could but the blood had dripped down her skin, seeping and crusted on the linen. All white and all red. He draws closer, assessing the jagged skin, there’s bruising which doesn't seem right, but they’re healing well - or as well as they can be; there’s no infection to be seen and a substantial amount of the bleeding has receded, only blotting on the deepest of lashes. He checks over her small hands, they’re healing nicely too - some of the nails had been so splintered that they’ve been removed completely, and two slender fingers have been taped together. Noiselessly, he fills her empty goblet with water and brushes her hair from her face before taking his leave.

When he steps out of her chambers, the familiar feeling of rage nestles into his bones. He shouldn't have come. It’s just a reminder of how much he bloody useless he is. Brow furrowed, jaw locked, neck terse, he grimaces, feeling his scars twitching furiously. He stalks through the halls, quietly for a man of his size, when someone rounds the corner and crashes into him - he doesn't recognize him, not noticeable enough to be a Lord, too big and strong to be a stable boy.

"Apologies, dog-"

The Hound’s arm moves before he’s given it any thought, open palm on the man's chest, pushing him with such force against the stone wall that he hears the boy struggle to breathe as he marches away.

He stands dutifully by Joff's side for an extra two long, boring days before she emerges. Red hair shining in the sun like a beacon, piled on top of her head with intricate braids intertwining one another, her dress is one from Highgarden, he figures, the light material blue in colour and billowing about her in the breeze, the neck at the front is high, resting along her collarbones but the back drapes low, gathering in folds around her hips, framing her flogged skin. It’s healing nicely, scabbing over like the little lady has worked her needle into it – sewn herself shut with red yarn.

Moving towards her without conscious thought, he towers over and casts her in shadow.

"The fuck are you wearing girl?" His voice is a low snarl.

"My lord? It is... a dress?"

_Aye, I can see that_. Did she think him simple?

“Where did you get it? The Street of Silk?"

She gasps and he watches the blush spread across her cheeks.

"No, Ser. It is one of Lady Margaery's, she has been so kind as to offer it to me while I...  heal."

He let his gaze roam all over her, "You look like a whore."

The blush deepens and her eyes drop to the floor. "Forgive me, my lord. I will return to my chambers. I just… I wanted to thank you for what you d-”

“Spare me, girl. And I’m no lord.”

Ducking her head, the Hound stares after her as she flies away, flitting through the hallways while lords and ladies and all those true knights she adores so much turn towards her, licking their lips like hungry cats. She doesn't even notice. _Pretty little stupid thing_.

Holding onto his anger, he follows the King like the well-trained dog he is, pushing the girl from his mind, a difficult task, considering. The dress suited her well, the shade of cornflower flattering her pale skin and ocean eyes, and the neckline showcasing her pretty throat; his hand twitches, wanting to wrap his fingers around it – not tightly, well, not _too_ tightly. Hold her in place so he could attend to her the way he wants, apply increments of pressure until she looks at him, looks into his grey eyes and sees how much he wants her. He would soak her up, moonlight on the sea, turning tides, raising waves-

Someone coughs and he’s brought back to Joffrey’s side, he gives his head the smallest of shakes. It will do neither of them any good if he can’t control his thoughts about the bloody girl. He just has to wait until tonight, when he’s dismissed from his duties, and then his mind can roam. The day can’t end soon enough.


	4. Sansa: Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all are living in a dream,  
> But life ain’t what it seems,  
> Oh, everything’s a mess,  
> And all these sorrows I have seen,  
> They lead me to believe,  
> That everything’s a mess,  
> But I wanna dream.  
> \- Imagine Dragons

_It is just a small thank you, but will he accept it?_ Sansa wonders absently as she makes her way back from the godswood. Rays of the setting sun leak through the red and orange leaves of oak and birch, the birds sing and it’s all very beautiful to Sansa – she wishes she could fantasize here, daydream about the things she used to, but that time has long since passed and now all she can think about is the Hound.

What had happened between those days when she was recovering? Before she had passed out from the pain, he had been holding her so gently, looking at her so fiercely with something she thought was pride, but then… out in the gardens, his gaze was still fierce but there had been anger, hatred too. Mind buzzing in confusion, she doesn’t notice the shadow following her.

 _He called me a whore._ Her brows burrow and her teeth sink into her bottom lip, chewing on it idly. _He only said I looked like one._ When she had put on the loose fabric that morning, she had thought the same thing. Uncomfortable was not a strong enough word to encompass her feelings as she had sauntered around the castle with the glare of every lord and lady, every handmaiden and squire. The material had felt heavy on her shoulders despite the thinness, the Northerner in her had rebelled, a wolf gnashing its jaws; the colour too bright, the drapery too loose, it had taken a lot for her to leave her arms by her side and not fold them across her chest as she felt all those eyes on her. Pride had surmounted after warring with shame. Some days it is easier to pretend that she is braver than she feels, those days she pushes back any ideas of what her future husband might think of her marred skin, pushes back the desire to hide any evidence of her time in the capital. But she had to let them know she was still standing, even if it meant that they would wish to try and break her again _. Let them try_.

All those she had once thought friends she now knew relished in her pain and humiliation and she would have no right to call herself a Stark if she gave it to them. No, she would hold her head high and courtesy when bid, she’d wear her scars as if they were a shield if just to prove that she _could_ withstand. She _could_ survive.

_But not without help._

And she is back to thinking about him _again_. Circling itself futilely, her mind returns to the peace offering in her hands. She sighs at it, disappointed that it is not enough and positive that he will not accept it anyway.

The snap of a twig has her spinning around, the dark grey of her dress twisting with the movement, her back itched underneath but she can ignore it now, the itch meant they were healing – a good sign, though the bruising still caused a deep ache. A figure is walking around the corner and Sansa’s heart is wondering whether or not to start panicking, but then she sees who it is and her shoulders relax.

“My lord, I was hoping to find you,” She gives him a watery smile, stepping closer to the tree he leans against.

“Were you?”

She huffs a small smirk, reminded of the same question from the Imp’s mouth instead of the Hound’s, when she had told him he would pray safely for his return, just as she prayed for Joffrey’s – a small amount of power in the sarcasm she could wield.

“Yes, I… I have a token of my gratitude,” Sansa can feel her ears burning as embarrassment unfolds in her like the blooming of a flower. Thrusting her hands out, she looks up at him, a small smile despite her nervousness.

“The fuck is that?” His rasp is incredulous and she wants to smile because it’s just so _him,_ but her hands are shaking and it’s difficult to swallow.

“It-”

“Tokens aren’t for the likes of me, girl. You give a dog something pretty and it won’t stay pretty for long.”

He gives her a long hard look and, when she doesn’t move, pushes himself off the trunk to leer over her. Narrowed eyes, he snatches the thing off her and, without looking, stuffs it into the limited space between his armour and tunic. She stands there like a simpleton, staring up at him.

Heaving a sigh, he wraps his giant hands around the tops of her arms, his fingers bruising and then he’s walking her backwards, eyes never leaving her own. Tipped up to watch him, the back of her head hits the tree behind her first, her long hair snagging on the bark, she winces and a flash of annoyance crosses the Hound’s face. He twists her abruptly and then walks until his chest is pressed lightly against her back, her front pushing hard against the unforgiving bay of wood. Stroking down until he’s holding her arms lower, he winds them around her back, capturing both her wrists in one of his and holds them at the base of her spine, her shoulder blades protest the awkward angle, but she doesn’t try to move. Sansa can hear the thumping of her heart in her ears, her cheek scratching the oak as she tries to turn and look at him, neck craning and hair coming loose.

“My lord? You don’t like it?” Her voice is small, clouded with confusion. He chuckles darkly in her ear, his hot breath sending a spike of… _something_ into her belly. 

One of his thighs’ brushes along one of hers, and it’s a much-needed alert, she begins wriggling in his hands, worry and panic rising in her chest. She bucks – using the strength of the tree to try and push her back against him, writhing and trying to break free from his grip. His other hand comes up and loops her hair around his fist, tugging gently until her throat is arched high and she can see his face above hers. She stills, eyes flying wildly over his face, and when she shudders, he lets out a low groan and she can smell the sour red-fruit wine on his tongue. Her lips are open, but she doesn’t make a sound – confusion and surprise stealing her of any voice she might have.

Silver irises spark along her skin, setting something deep inside her on fire. As if he can’t choose where to look first, they flicker from eyes to lips to neck and lower, and she realises, with a burst of red across her cheeks, that from this angle he can probably see right down her dress.

He huffs a laugh, softer than before, and she gazes at his mouth as a slow smirk grows across his cheeks, well, one cheek, the good cheek is a smirk, the scarred is a twitch of muscle and skin.

“Don’t move.” As if she isn’t statuesque.

When did the birds stop singing? The command slides over her in this quiet place, with only the slightest of rustling leaves and their breathing, laboured though they have barely moved. Letting go of her hair, he snakes a hand around her front, pulling her arms tighter against her back as he slides up her waist to cup her breast. His hand is warm through her dress, fuelling that _something_ that makes her legs twitch and her ears warm, his fingers are light when he brushes over her nipple so gently, letting out a low hum when he finds it puckered and begging for attention. She doesn’t move when he thrums his middle finger against it, once, twice, she whimpers and closes her lids, only to open them again when his attention recedes.

He pulls away from her, one hand still around her wrists, she daren’t move out of fear of angering him, but her eyes are straining, trying to see what she can hear: the clank of steel, the brush of fabric and clasps buckling. Something is wrapped tightly around her wrists, and with a sudden jolt she knows that it is her gift. He’s using the gift she gave to him to tie her up. Sansa opens her mouth to protest but before she can his hands are back on her, and any noise she may have made is stolen because his hands are hot and heavy and _everywhere_ and it takes a lot of concentration just to breathe. Both middle fingers flicking her nipples through the material of her dress, each touch sending a pinch into her belly, and then he _is_ pinching, and it feels… ah, she doesn’t know, but it makes her ache. He is groping and squeezing her mounds of flesh, and she wants him to pinch her again but cannot – she simply refuses to ask. One hand moves up to shift the hair from her neck and then his mouth is there. Hot and open and humming against her ear, she can’t hold back the moan or the shake in her legs as his lips move over her flesh, up to a sweet spot just under her ear.

Her body relaxes into him, chest heaving as her eyes close, his tongue dips into her ear and a bubble of giggles burst from her mouth at the tickle. She expects him to be outraged, angry that she’s laughing at his ministrations, worry freezes her, but instead she feels his smile against the skin on her jaw and something about that moment fools her into thinking there’s no fear here, not with him. One hand moving down to her hip, the other comes across her throat, her body judders with anticipation and her eyes seek his, and they’re gazing down at her in a sort of wonderment, melting any doubts that remained in her mind even as her body continues to sing under his touches. He pulls her hips back until she can feel his manhood pressing against her backside, she bites her lip and his eyes flash with something she doesn’t understand but knows that she likes. Sansa doesn’t know if the pulse she can feel on her neck is from his fingertips or her veins, but it just adds _something_ to this impossibly quiet, dreamlike moment. He kisses her cheek, her temple, his hand at her hip pulling her skirts up until she feels the cool air of the evening wrapping around her calves, feel the warmth of his palm on her thigh, dragging the skin a little as he travels the length of her legs towards her secret place.

She tries to clench them together, a noise of protest vibrating in her throat but, before she can give it words, her tongue is trapped underneath two of his thick fingers, his palm cupping her chin. He hisses a small “ _Fuck,_ ” when she sucks his skin instinctively, tongue lashing along the two members in her mouth, trying to find comfort from the intrusion, and then two fingers on his other hand is exploring her lips _down there._

He growls, a low sound of approval when he finds the dampness between her legs. Writhing, she hums as his fingers explore her underneath the layer of protection that is her smallclothes, it’s warm and wet and so wonderful that her eyes roll to the back of her head. She sucks in a deep gasp, tasting him, breathing him in, tongue swirling around and between, lips pressing gently while he continues to spread and touch and flick, and then he pushes one finger inside and everything is strung tight when he applies the smallest of pressures. But, as if a change of mind, his fingers tiptoe up, searching, and when he finds it, it’s like the string of a harp being plucked – her whole body thrums with the sweetest crescendo, and she must be showing how this affects her because his attention is now on this one point that is making her shudder and sweat in expectation, but expectation of what, she doesn’t know… She can feel that _something_ building, igniting, it is too much and not enough and she doesn’t understand, doesn’t know if she wants to. Red and black flash across her closed eyes, and she feels his lips on her forehead but it’s not a kiss, her lashes flutter open and the heat of his gaze, with his fingers inside her and his scent in her nostrils makes her fold in on herself, only to spit fire in a burst of tension and ecstasy. She reaches her summit only to fling herself from the top of it as waves pulse throughout her body, she feels muscles she didn’t know she had clench and throb and it’s _wonderful_ , her vision filled with grey eyes and scarred flesh, unable to look away.

Sansa is aware, in the back of her mind, that the Hound is groaning so deeply that she can feel it reverberating through her back into her chest, his fingers sweeping through the increase of wetness causing her to jerk against his body as the last of her muscles twitch and convulse, his fingers slip out of her mouth and there’s a light ache in her jaw, and then his fingers slip out of _her_ and it feels cold with the absence of _him_. With his lips pressed to her neck, he pulls her skirts back down and slowly, carefully, unties her hand. She lets them fall, head still resting against his chest while she fights to breathe. A small smile graces her lips when the Hound’s fingers tease along her temple, stroking her hair and untangling it, feeling his own quirk in response. A feather-breath kiss to her jaw, and then his support from behind disappears. She staggers a moment, grabbing the trunk in front of her to stay on unsteady legs, she turns, but he is already gone. No sound, no sight, not even a shadow.

The sun has set and the breeze has stilled and suddenly she doesn’t want to be out here anymore. She hurries back, her fingers twisting her hair nervously and head snapping to-and-fro for any sign of where he could have gone. But there’s nothing.

It’s not until she’s in the safety of her own room that she berates herself for being so _stupid_ , so utterly and completely _idiotic_ – she didn’t put up a fight, didn’t even whisper a word! He had his way with her without repercussion or protestation and in the _Godswood_ of all places!

Chewing on her lip, her body reacts in one way while her mind another when she tastes the Hound on her tongue. A part of her singing at the pure _pleasure_ that made every inch of her rejoice, a part of her denying that it even happened at all… that maybe she had fallen asleep, and a part of her – and this is the part that shocks her the most, humiliating blush coursing over her skin – is wondering when they can do it again.

She clambers under the covers, shaking but sated, mind racing but… _happy_. It doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep.


	5. Sandor: Dirty Paws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She ran down the forest slopes,  
> The forest of talking trees,  
> They used to sing about the birds and the bees,  
> The bees had declared a war,  
> The sky wasn't big enough for them all,  
> The birds, they got help from below,  
> From dirty paws and the creatures of snow.  
> \- Of Monsters and Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very grateful to all who are still following this story! You are all so motivating ^_^ I have _never_ written anything like this before and oftentimes struggle with the mundane aspects (I should really read the books, but I'd like to finish the series first - waiting to buy the final season!) as well as the smutty stuff so your continued support means the world! ^o^ <3

_Fuuuuuuck._

                Nothing, not a lifetime in a whore house nor a year of abstinence, could have prepared him for that. Those soft moans and shivers wracked her whole body, _Gods_. A man obsessed, his cock burns with desire but he refuses to touch it, to acknowledge it, not when he can’t satisfy it the way he wants, the way he _needs_.

                He _needs_ to bury his face between her thighs-made-of-cream and lather every soft line hidden away behind those silky copper curls, she’s all sweet roses and splash of summer, he can only imagine how she’d taste. He’d soak up every last drop of her as if she were the Sun and he the Moon, chasing her for any light she would be willing to bear on his blackened soul. The cavity that he feels in his chest expands, contorts, filling with _her_ ; auburn hair and cool eyes, tender neck and bitten lips.

                He _needs_ to press that plump mouth to his own, to slide his tongue along hers.

                Biting the knuckle of his middle finger, he sits on the edge of the bed, tries his best to suppress the half groan, half sob that breaks from his lips, the bruises from her grip are no longer there, but now they know what it feels like to be inside her mouth and how her tongue had darted over them, lavishing every inch of skin and he can feel it _everywhere_ , he wonders how it would feel- No. It’s already too difficult to subdue the crushing waves of want inside without letting his imagination ramble. He daren’t even contemplate where his other hand had been. 

                Gods, how he wants her. Like a starving man finding a crumb, the smallest taste that can do nothing to quench the ravenous hunger he feels inside. But he can be patient – he _will_ be patient – he can be for his little bird. It will be worth it to listen to that sweet song of hers again. The most proficient whore would be a disappointment to him right now, no matter how hard his cock is straining.

                Weaving the embroidered handkerchief around his fingers, the _gift of her gratitude_ , he strokes the soft material with the pad of his thumb. He had given her one long ago, that day on the battlements when the little bird had sharpened her claws and moved to throw Joffrey to his death. Sometimes he regrets stopping her, but if he hadn’t, she wouldn’t be here now, and neither would he. He had blotted the blood on her lip after Meryn had struck her. This is a new one, the material smoother and navy blue, he imagines she made it from one of her Northern dresses, on one side she’s embroidered a black hound in three of the corners, and a wolf in the other, you wouldn’t know the difference if you weren’t looking. Three black dogs with slate grey eyes and a grey wolf with winter blue, it’s magnificent work, with fine filigree and yellow lace intertwining between them like a floral border. On the other side, in the same yellow thread, is a simple SC.

                He thinks about her working on this, how long had it taken her? She had to have worked on it while her back was healing. Had she been in pain? Did it serve to distract her from it? If only he could bloody talk to her, touch her, tease her. If, if, fucking _if_.

                There’s a rapping at his door and, in one swift movement, he’s hidden the kerchief under his pillow, risen from the bed and unbarred the door. It’s late and he’s not expecting anyone. A sudden surge of excitement has him thinking it might be Sansa, he does his best to squash that thought.

                “Ser Clegane,” It’s the Imp’s squire, “I have been sent down here to inform you that there will be a tourney tomorrow, King’s wishes. A battle in the morning which you will be expected to take part in, along with the other knights and members of the Kingsguard, after which there will be an announcement along with the prize-giving.” The Hound is surprised and impressed by the lack of a squeak in his voice, even as his lips wobble in fear.

                “What’s the announcement?”

                “The King hasn’t permitted me to say, my Lord.”

                “Not a lord. Tourney, tomorrow. Good. Now, fuck off.”

                 He closes the door before the boy can peep another word. Chuckles to himself at the crestfallen look before sliding out of his clothes and into bed. A fight in the morn, the little bird will be sitting in the high stands, he wonders if she will keep her gaze diverted as she usually does in casual settings such as these. His cock twitches thinking about red hair and strawberry lips, sweeter than lemon cakes, inciting a craving deeper than the yearn for wine.

                 If he’s to fight tomorrow, easy as it will be for him, he can’t be distracted – at least that’s his excuse when he takes himself in hand and begins stroking. Reaching under the pillow, he pulls out her gift and wraps it around his manhood, thinks of her dainty fingers whirling across the material, wonders if she bit her tongue between teeth as she concentrated. The thought of her tongue surges his thoughts in a new direction, he imagines how that tongue would feel on his body, and now he knows he can’t stop himself – he had told himself he could be patient, he lied. Done his best to keep his mind disciplined from his imagination, in the end, it is only the smallest excuse which bursts forth his deepest fantasies. It doesn’t take long before he hits his peak, strained as he is, balling the handkerchief in his fist to make sure it doesn’t get sticky.

                 He wipes away his seed with the tunic that he wore in the day, slumber coming easy to him, and when he dreams of fire, as he always does, it’s the soft cinders of sun-kissed hair instead of the angry flames that he’s become accustomed to.

*****

                 The Sun is unforgiving, beating against his back, causing him to sweat and chafe under layers of iron and cloth. It’s nothing he isn’t used to though, and he ignores it best he can. The tourney is surprisingly packed with smallfolk and lord and ladies, alike. Could be that it seemed busier due to the smaller amount of space – the last tourney had taken place on the east walls of the Red Keep, but today the people clambered over one another on the trodden flat-packed dirt of the small northern gardens. There are no pretty flowers here, having once been used to please the Mad King’s thirst for killing with fire, there were still burns on the ground and the grass had scorched where pyres had been placed. The idea makes him sick to his stomach. Not an enthusiast of anything to do with flames. Well, with _one_ exception.

                 He tries to seek out the blaze of red hair before his first fight, but she’s not in the stands with Joffrey where he expects her to be, a quick glance around and he can’t see her anywhere. The crowds are gathered, the Queen already deep in her cups, Lady Margaery keeps glancing to the empty seat where the little bird should be perched. Searching for that bright streak of auburn in the crowd, he comes up short. Where is she?

                 What if someone saw them last night?

                 The thought punches him, makes him breathe through his nose to try and calm his suddenly racing heart. Oh, Gods. How stupid and _foolish_ of them- of _him_. But wait, if she were receiving punishment, then where was his? That idea calms him some, but he’s still anxious to see her.

                  It’s too late, the squire boy tells him to ready himself. The Hound secures his armour, straight out refusing any help with bloody fasteners, but accepts the sword and shield the boy provides. He gives another cursory glance. Ah, there she is. And then he’s wishing he hadn’t spotted her because she’s all dazzling smiles and deep blushes with that pretty boy. Ser fucking Loras. As if nothing had transpired between them at all last night. As if _he_ were nothing.

                  That makes him really fucking angry.

 


	6. Sansa: Jump, Fly, Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you jump, then I jump too,  
> So I don't gotta say I love you,  
> Cuz it shows when I hold you,  
> Go ahead and fly baby, I'm here beside you,  
> Sky high that's a nice view,  
> You called and I come through,  
> This is how I say I love you,  
> Go ahead and fly baby, I'm here beside you.  
> \- Gabriel Black, Sofi de la Torre

                Sansa can see- no, _feel_ the Hounds’ stare on her, and she desperately wants to return it, though she has no idea what that would involve. She’s unsure what her eyes will portray; fear? Loathing? Or, as she more acutely suspects, lust? Her cheeks warm just thinking about it.

                “Are you well?”

                “Hm?” Blushing again, she realises that Ser Loras must have asked her a question, but her mind, too wrapped up in thoughts she’d never share, had chosen to ignore him completely. She bites the inside of her cheek as he raises a hand to her face, the back of it feeling the heat of her embarrassment which only deepens when he takes it for sickness.

                “We must find you some shade, my Lady.”

                Looking at him, she sighs. Ser Loras really _is_ lovely, she’d always thought so, gentle blonde locks and a dimple when he smiles. A ‘true knight’. One with armour that gleams and a sword that shines. How she wishes she still believed in those stories. Naivety had been a secret paradise.

                Now, she can’t help wondering how he keeps his sword so clean. Where is the blood? Where are the dents in his armour? Who has been fighting his battles for him? She smiles at the thought of Lady Olenna dressing in iron and wielding an axe, Ser Loras gives her a funny look and she wonders if perhaps her smile was a bit too wide.

                He walks her to her seat beside Joffrey and Margaery, giving her another questionable once-over before taking his leave to join the others. Sansa fights to regain her composure; back straight, hands in lap, mask in place. She flinches slightly when she feels someone snaking their hand into her own, it’s only Lady Margaery and she smiles at the woman who has been so lovely to her.

                “I’ve never seen my brother look at a woman like _that_ before, what did you do to him?” Her voice is a quiet murmur, her eyes trained on the men readying for the first battle.

                “Ser Loras is simply concerned for my well-being,” Her eyes lower to their entwined fingers, giving her a small squeeze, “Your family is far too kind to me. I’m afraid my skin is not accustomed to such lovely weather, my pale complexion reddening under the sun must have alarmed him some.”

                They laugh together, earning a side glare from Joffrey, which only makes them snigger harder.

                When the first battle commences, their giddiness adjourns some and they fall in with the crowd as they watch the men parry and stab, side-step and shield. Every so often Margaery’s hand will clench, only adding to the suspense that Sansa can feel in her stomach. She has to work very hard to keep her eyes on the men fighting and not search for the Hound readying for his turn; she can still feel his eyes on her, as surely as if his fingertips were sweeping along her skin.

                Too soon, she sees his great bulk entering the grounds in front of them, his snarling black helm towering over Ser Deric Chaves of House Florent.

                “Oh! How apt, the fox being hunted by the Hound.” Margaery’s smile is full of mischief and Sansa can’t help the grin spreading across her face. She knew there was little love lost between Margaery and Ser Deric for she had been most utterly disappointed that he had none of the sly wiles of the animal. Behind his squire, the golden red fox weaves on the thin material of his banner.

                Ser Clegane circles the poor boy and with a start, Sansa realises he is not much younger than the Hound himself, and when he stops, he’s facing the stands. The only view Sansa has of Ser Chaves is his back, but her eyes are too busy exploring the mass of black armour to take note of him. His grey eyes are burning when she finally steels herself to meet his gaze, cast in the shadow of his helmet and unblinking, Margaery gives her a sharp look causing embarrassment to flare across her skin, but she doesn’t look away and neither does he. Not when Ser Chaves advances towards him, not when they raise their swords, not even when the metals clang together. Sansa fights to keep her grip loose in her friend’s hand.

                Every strike is blocked, every footfall countered, all without breaking eye contact. He rips his helm off and sends it bouncing across the dry ground, kicking up dust and earning a gasp from the crowd, cried out in unison. She feels her lips part on a silent sigh, eyes tightening as she takes all of him in, strong jaw, wild hair, facial features so sharp and fierce that it sends a stab of that mysterious _something_ straight to her core. She wants to lean forward, wants to slide over the wooden flanks and ask him what he thought of the other night, wants to ask him if he liked the handkerchief she’d made him. She wants to kick herself in the shin for wanting these things.

                He smiles as if he can read her mind and finally releases her, she has to take a deep, shuddering inhale, somehow having forgotten this vital process of breathing. He turns his attention to the fox and in one swift movement has Ser Deric lying on the ground, yielding with an impossible squeak in his voice. The crowd cheers, Sansa claps along with them but her eyes are still narrowed and her teeth are embedded in her lip.

                Wondering how many had seen their small display, she glances around; Margaery certainly knows something is amiss, but, thank the Gods, Joffrey seems oblivious. Indeed, it seems that apart from her sweet friend from Highgarden, _no one_ noticed anything. But she thought it had been painfully obvious?

_He is just as much a ghost as I am._

                The thought leaves a profound sadness in her. She had just become a ghost in these halls recently. Only, it is worse for him, because they _do_ see him, they just don’t think he is worth any space in their mind. How long had he been disregarded for the dog that they call him? _I call him that too, sometimes._ She vows to herself, from this day on he is no longer a dog, no longer a ghost, not to her, anyway.

                This time, when he bows and leaves for his tent to await the next contest, she allows herself to look after him, blushing when he twists his neck to look back at her.

                The tourney passes in this way, her awareness spiking whenever the H- _Ser Clegane_ enters into combat, beating his foes with ease, grey irises on her; their intensity never ceasing.

                “I must stretch my legs, my love,” Margaery whispers to Joffrey, pulling Sansa up with her, “Sansa, walk with me?”

                She wants to say no, she doesn’t want to answer any of the questions she’s about to be bombarded with, not when she doesn’t know the answers herself. She knows she can’t say no.

                Rising stiffly, she gives a cursory glance at those around her, but she needn’t worry, they were all focused on the grunts and clashes of the fighters. Arms linked, they walk past the hustle and bustle of the smallfolk, climbing the steps of the tall walls in silence. Higher and higher they ascend, at least that is how it feels, but when she looks down, they are not half as high as she thought.

                When they are a good distance out of earshot from anyone else, Margaery twists and yanks Sansa to the edge, holding her waist and pressing her against an embrasure of the stone wall. Sansa is lifted off her feet, clawing at the air as Margaery tips her closer to the edge, it is not as high as she thought but it is still very high! A fall from this height would lead to severe crippling, if not death! Her nails rake along the gravelly rock as her hips roll underneath her, her shoulders dig into the surface, her head dangling far over the edge. If Margaery were to let go, she would surely fall.

                The hands at her waist disappear.

                She screams.


	7. Sandor: It's Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You confide in the low light, you're so kind,  
> You're caught up in the crossfire,  
> It's alright,  
> It's alright.

                He’s been watching her all fucking day, barely looking away to swat these cunting flies that call themselves knights, so of course he’s aware when she takes her leave, arm in arm with the garden-bitch. He removes the sweltering armour and, waving away his squires’ offer to escort him, starts after them. He has a short break now, anyway.

                Moving quickly, he darts in and out of the crowd, replenishing his thirst with water and wine along the way, the loud cheers of the crowd slowly fading. The roaring of the crowd’s jeers and cheers surround him. He’s nearing the base of the steps when a single scream pierces through all the noise. The crowd doesn’t notice. No one does. The scream may as well have been a whisper. It resonates through his chest. His head snaps up and there she is; body suspended over one of the gaps, hair curling wildly as she thrashes for support. Ice unfurls, cascading through his body like wildfire. His heart stops. _Everything stops_.

                _I’ll never make it to her before she-._

                He runs. Taking the stairs two at a time, he races upwards, not much thought as to who or how or why someone is trying to hurt the little bird. Only knowing that he needs to get to her as fast as he can. If not to save her, then at least avenge her.

                Reaching the narrow wall-walk, his mind races with the scene before him. The garden-bitch has the little bird on her back, clinging onto her with handfuls of her dress while she teeters on the edge, too far over to grab anything to haul herself up. Her legs scramble, trying to find purchase, only serving to push at the hands that held her.

                “Help me!” Margaery shouts, struggling with Sansa’s writhing legs.

                In two long strides he’s reaching over the edge, taking hold of the front of her dress, her hands instantly wrap around the forearm. He drags her to him.

Surprise takes him when he places her on the ground and she wriggles closer, clutching at the fabric of his tunic and burying her face into his chest. Wrapping his arms around her, he bares his teeth at the garden-bitch.

                “It's alright now, little bird," The ice thaws with the feel of her racing heart against his chest, her quickened breath hot through the fabric, he turns to the other girl, "What did you do to her?” The question is a growl, his anger growing rapidly. He hasn’t felt the ice in such a long time.

                “I- I had to test a theory,” She raises her eyebrows at him and he understands, she’s testing _him_.

                “What if your theory was wrong?”

                “Just… be glad that it wasn’t,” a pointed smile graces her lips. Why do people keep on trying to fucking kill her? If she had been wrong, if Sansa Stark hadn’t become the centre point of his thoughts, there’s no way she would have been able to pull her back up. Sansa would have fallen. She’d be crippled, or worse. _FUCK_. His arms instinctively wrap tighter around her as she shudders.

                “You need to let go of her soon, the guards are coming,”

                “Like fuck if you think I’ll be letting her go around you, take my bloody head if you want _my Lady_ ,” he spits the word like an insult.

                “Oh, your secret is safe with me. Sansa needs a… a _friend_ in this cruel place,” The words are whispered and she’s edged closer, she winks at Sandor and strokes the little birds’ hair away from her eyes. “I’m sorry that I scared you, Sansa.” The little bird turns in his grip, red cheek flush against his chest and her eyes watery with unshed tears, “I need you to be safe, you mean more to me than you know. Can you forgive me?”

                He feels her nod against his chest and Margaery sighs with believable relief, laying the lightest of kisses on her cheek. She’s so bloody trusting, but he’s not about to be fooled, he pulls her back towards the stairs and away from the girls’ manipulative smiles. A hot surge of jealousy courses through him, _‘you mean more to me than you know,’_ what the buggering hells did _that_ mean?

                The garden-bitch gives them a deflated look but thankfully keeps her distance as he pulls her out at arm’s length to give her a once, twice, thrice over. Her skirts are ruffled and eyes are still shining, but other than some half-moon indents in her palms and a broken nail she’s unscathed. On his knees, smoothing her dress down, he jerks when her fingers brush over his, he looks up at her.

                _So fucking pretty._

He shakes his head, now is not the time.

                “Thank you, Ser,” she drowns him in her eyes, and he drinks in as much of those cool-water blues as he can, “You’ve saved me twice now.”

                “More than that.”

                “Yes,” she smiles radiantly as if her endangered life is some sort of… of-of a _bloody joke_ , “And… you fought very gallantly at the tourney today.”

                “No. I didn’t.” The words are a hiss, a frustrated sigh, “A dog isn’t _gallant_ for putting boys on their backs.”

                “You made it look so easy.”

                “It was.”

                “Do you not know how to take a compliment?”

                “What do you want me to say?” Growling, he stands, consuming her, but she’s not scared anymore, no, now she seems frustrated, maybe even angry. Better anger than fear. “Thank you, _my Lady_ , for gathering all these fools to watch me knock a few inexperienced men to the ground. It does nothing for me, girl. If you think it does then you’re as stupid as when you first came to King’s Landing.”

                Baring her teeth, her little hands ball into fists by her side, her eyes narrow and she looks like she’s about to argue further, changes her mind, spins on her heel, auburn locks smack his chest with the force of her spiral, and she stalks back down the steps. Margaery hurries past, giving him an exasperated sigh. He could give a fuck what the soon-to-be-Queen is thinking, but he does keep a close eye on them both as they descend. The guards meet them halfway and he sees the garden-bitch waving her arms in some elaborate explanation, he supposes. Doesn’t much care. Bracing against the brick wall, he stares down at the tourney below, all oblivious to these little dramatics that seem to have burdened his life in the last few months.

                So… now Margaery knows his… feelings? His… _want_ for the little bird. Unsurprising really, the fact may as well be seared onto his forehead with a hot poker with how well he hides it. Why would she put her in danger like that, though? He’s fucked, but there’s naught he can do about it now. He’ll either lose his head to a spike on the traitor’s walk, or he won’t. Depends on how well the bitch can keep a secret and _if_ she wants to.

                He’d have to stay in her good graces.

So would Sansa.

A low groan rumbles up his throat, he loathes the idea of having to rely on the little bird to lie for him, considering she’s such an awful liar to begin with. Margaery must have some ulterior purpose lined up for them and Sandor’s stomach twists just thinking about it. They are now completely at her mercy.

                _Better her than Joff._

                Returning to finish the rest of the festival, after rounds of melee there is a performance of axe throwing as well as a competition between archers neither of which he partakes in, he retreats to the tent a while, longing for a section of shade and drink of wine. It’s while he’s sipping the sour red that he ponders, there isn’t much more that the garden-bitch can demand of them, really.

                He finds out later that evening just how wrong he is.


	8. Sansa: Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you were church, I'd get on my knees,  
> Confess my love,  
> I'd know where to be,  
> My sanctuary, you're holy to me,  
> If you were church, I'd get on my knees.  
> \- Fall Out Boy

                Sansa’s not mad at Lady Margaery, she flinches when the Lady moves too quickly and when their fingers interlink, which has become an almost constant routine whenever they see each other now, but it is not anger she feels.

She daren’t go near anything with an edge.

                The tourney finished before lunch; Margaery has been fluttering in and out of Sansa’s company since, it causes an incredible amount of anxiety and she wonders how much more her heart can take. Surely the King will notice his betrothed’s behaviour? She does not exactly wear a mask as she and Sandor do. _She must have a mask of her own,_ and Sansa smiles at that; gladdened by the knowledge that others, even those who are as seemingly free and authoritative as Lady Margaery, have to pick and choose their expressions and sayings in public.

                A hand slithers into hers for what feels like the fiftieth time this day and she’s tugged into an empty hallway – her muscles jitter, fretfulness rising in her chest, she wonders if she will have a seizure.

                “There is to be an announcement at the evening feast, but I am far too excited that I cannot contain it; to celebrate the Festival of the Seven, the King has delegated a whole week of activities and games for us! We have to plan it. You will help me, won’t you?”

                “If it please, my Lady,”

                “It will!” Margaery draws her close so the skin of their arms and shoulders are flush while they walk, “No expense spared, we only have a fortnight to plan and prepare but I think we may recruit a few lords and ladies to help,” Her eyebrow arches up suggestively and Sansa tries to swallow, “I know what I want to do for the final day, the Day of the Stranger, we will start on that first, right now if you like?”

                Sansa can only nod, still apprehensive, but the idea of arranging a festival is entirely too tempting, it is exactly the sort of thing she had hoped would fill her time here in King’s Landing, before her father had been decapitated.

                Margaery lights up at Sansa’s consent, leading her through the halls with a brusque pace now, “On the seventh, we will wear our masks all day, we must ensure they are comfortable, how will you decorate yours? I would like to paint mine with roses but I feel that would readily give away any sort of mystery!” Her quickened words infect Sansa and she feels her excitement about the prospect growing. “Apart from our masks, all the ladies of high court will wear the same dress and style their hair the same way, I even think we will dye it black, hair like yours leaves no anonymity,” she tugs a tendril, wrinkling her nose with a breezy giggle, Sansa blushes and tucks it behind her ear.

                They reach Margaery’s chambers and she ushers them inside, Sansa had been here a handful of times before, though not alone, never just the two of them.

                “I do not wish to be disturbed, we will be here until at least supper,” she explains as she bars the door, opening a large chest at the bottom of her bed as Sansa sits on the edge of a plush chair by the unlit fireplace – the summer weather outside streaming in through the windows. She pulls out several pieces of material: lace, silk, fur, feathers! Dropping them into the centre of the sitting area, they scatter and Sansa scoots onto her knees on the floor to gather them as Margaery retrieves more from her chest.

                “We will create the masks first, we will use _these_ to make the basic shape,” thrusting a handful of metal strips into her face, Sansa knew how to do that, she’d made plenty of her own dresses beforehand and all of them had boning in, she nodded and took them from her, examining how they bent, which ones had too sharp edges and would have to be placed more strategically. These were going on ladies’ faces after all. “Seven for the women, seven for the men, of course there will be many more, when we have made them to our liking, we can get the handmaidens to duplicate the designs so every Lord and Lady has one for the day. Although, I think I will give the mask I wear a little something that is uniquely _me_.”

                “Do you think all should be half-faced? I think I would like to do one full-face, but if we are eating that would be impossible without removing it.”

                “Hmm, how about a hole where the mouth is?”

                Sansa is silent a long moment, staring at her hands, unsure how to tell Margaery how awful an idea that is without offending her. She looks up to find Margaery smirking at her, mirth in her eyes and laughter on her lips. Sansa huffs and throws a reel of thread at her friend, smiling all the while.

                “Imagine! A gaping darkness where a pair of lips should be,” Sansa chuckles, “I think the Stranger would like that very much.”

                “The mask framing his cheeks like the jowls of a hound!” Another round of giggles.

                “How shall we do this then?” Sansa says quickly, determined to try and stay away from anything to do with dogs or wolves or _hounds_ , “I think I will need to use a face for reference for the first masks at least, should I fetch some handmaidens?”

                “Of course not! Use me.”

                Sansa tentatively shuffles closer, bringing some bits and pieces along, sits with her knees tucked under her and, with her tongue between her lips, carefully places the metal along Margaery’s temples and works to twist and shape them to her face, cutting along the cheekbones and over the bridge of her nose, tying each piece together tightly before adding the next. The bare metal looks so striking next to her grey eyes, Sansa tells her so, blushing. Margaery doesn’t respond but the feel of her eyes on Sansa’s face becomes heavier.

                When the shape is moulded, the boning connecting to show where the eyes and the nose will be to avoid covering it with the fabric, they both set to work creating three more each. The women’s base complete they glance at each other. Men’s faces would be much different – in truth they probably should have had at least another two women for a template, considering Margaery’s features are so dainty it would undoubtedly be uncomfortable for some, but they hadn’t thought that far ahead. In any case, they would both be spared from any pain, being as their features were similar.

                Margaery shoots to her feet, unbars the door and pokes her head out; the Sun’s setting stream in through the door, turning everything golden.

                “Clegane!”

_Oh no._

                Margaery pulls the H- _Ser Clegane_ into her room and Sansa, surprised by her friend’s brazenness, gapes at his imposing figure being hauled into the Lady’s room. He did as he was bid when instructed to sit in front of Sansa, lowering himself slowly, confused all the while, eyes wide and one hand lay on the sheath of his sword, Sansa shot her friend a look, annoyed.

_Just my luck, of course he would be outside at that very moment, why wouldn’t he be?_

                Her sarcasm is biting, she reprimands herself, it is not his fault; not anyone’s fault but her own, to think otherwise would be selfish, she holds her tongue which is begging to ask Margaery for anyone else, anyone but him.

                “We need a man,” Margaery begins, falters, laughs, heat pools in Sansa’s face at the dubious sentence and Ser Clegane’s brow furrows, he must think the girlish giggles annoying, “We need a face to mould the masks for the men. For the Day of the Stranger. A day of masquerades.”

                She folds herself onto the floor, a mermaid’s pose about three feet from them, looking expectant. Sansa wants to hurl another reel of thread, this time in frustration, she knows the blood in her face is obvious, the knowledge making it all the more so, she groans internally but there’s no way to get out of it, best try to finish as quickly as possible.

                Shifting closer, she picks up a piece of the stripped metal, raising it to the unburnt side of his face; he instinctively leans back and it throws her balance off slightly. She grips his shoulder to steady herself and presses the metal to his skin – he flinches, eyes flashing with anger, mouth snarling.

                “Hold still,” her voice is low, even, her hands steady, and she’s surprised by it, once she places the first piece she sets into her rhythm as she had for the Ladies’ masks. Her tongue peeps out between her lips and she creates one half of the mask when she moves on to the other side he pulls away.

                “Shall I get some _Lord_ so you can finish?”

                “No, you’re perfect,” the words are out before she can recall them, silently rolling her eyes at the red bloom creeping up her neck and across her cheeks, she sucks a breath through her teeth, causing some of his hair to fall onto his face and – hands full – she blows it away. He shivers, eyes flashing with something that is definitely not anger. She tries not to think about it. Her hands shake until she finishes, and maybe even a little afterwards, too.

_Margaery is her own sort of torturer_.

                “His eyes are striking against the metal,” her repeated words make her uneasy – was she making fun of her? “Don’t you think so, Sansa?”

                “Indeed,” with the burns not drawing so much attention, she sees more, a smile tugs on her lips, what a funny thing, that hiding something could also reveal, “I’ve never noticed how similar your colouring is.” They both have eyes of steel.

                Still kneeling before him, she laces the mask behind his head, feeling his eyes roam all over, can see his lids growing heavy, his breath become shorter when she leans so close her cheek caresses his. His hands close into fists and his lids slide shut. Margaery crawls closer and when Sansa leans back, she sees him eyeing the Lady from Highgarden warily.

                Without a word, she rises from the floor and bars the door once again, turning with a smile to lean against it.

                “We’re going to play a little game,” her smile is cattish, Sandor rises immediately, slipping the mask free from his head.

                “I must return to th– “

                “Shh, it will be fun, I promise.”

                “My Lady…?” Sansa is so unsure of herself that she stays kneeling on the floor, hidden to some degree by Ser Clegane’s legs.

                “My sweet girl, you are so precious, and it seems I am not the only to have noticed,” Margaery floats over to her, taking her hands and lifting her to stand, “You know of the Hound’s affections for you?”

                Sansa is as red as a strawberry, eyes blinking rapidly as she stares at her friend, when she doesn’t say anything further, she glances at Ser Clegane – if he had any embarrassment on the matter, he didn’t show it. In fact, he is looking at her with the same intensity as Lady Margaery.

                “I- I am… I am fairly… aware.”

                “Good, then you’re not stupid,” her blush impossibly deepens and she wonders if she may die from the blood being in her head rather than the rest of her body, “Now, answer me honestly and you will _both_ be rewarded tenfold, but it is just your answer I want Sansa,” she pours three goblets of sweet wine and hands them each, Ser Clegane swallows the whole of his in one quick thrust of cup-to-mouth, placing the empty goblet on the table with a _clunk_. Sansa wants to do the same but her hands are shaking far too much, she will surely spill. “Have you done anything that should be…” She waves her hand, swirling the wine, “Saved for the marriage bed?”

                _She knows._

                She must have seen! But what if she didn’t? What should she say? Her eyes flicker to Ser Clegane, he shakes his head, jaw clenched so tight she thinks she can hear the grinding of teeth.

                “Yes,” her voice is small but he heard her all the same, his eyes close and he sighs greatly.

                “Did it make you… happy?”

                “Yes.”

                “Do you want to make him happy?” The silence stretches.

                “…Yes.”

                There’s a rumbling and with a start, she comprehends it is coming from _him_ , groaning so deeply she can feel it in her bones.

                “Stop,” his words are a rasping whisper, fists and eyes clenched tight, one hand still holding the mask. The metal will surely bend in his strong grasp.

                “Sansa, back on your knees.”

                She obeys hesitantly, placing her goblet beside her and looking to her friend for confirmation.

                “You cannot say no if you do the Hound will be in trouble, _you_ will be in trouble, do you understand?”

                Nodding, she looks down at her hands, she feels very small all of a sudden.

                “Remove the sword.”

                Sansa is careful to touch as little as possible as she takes off his scabbard, placing it next to her empty cup.

                “Unlace him.”

                Her head snaps up. The giant of a man seems rooted to the spot, still wound tight, but the Lady is lounging on her chair, sipping her wine, Sansa reaches for hers, taking a large gulp and smacking her lips. It is unladylike, but she cannot bring herself to care. She cannot think straight. Her pulse is hot in her ears and she feels… _confused_. She isn’t sure she wants this, but she cannot say no otherwise… what? _Would_ there be consequences? What would Margaery do if she said no? But she doesn’t want to disappoint her friend. And she _does_ want to make Ser Clegane happy, as he had for her. Even if there is no punishment, she doesn’t want to disappoint the two people she cares about most deeply, besides her family, who are in this room with her.

                With shaking hands, she pulls apart his breeches, grateful that he isn’t wearing the many layers of his Kingsguard uniform, just the cloak over regular clothes, his armour discarded after the tourney. His manhood is pressing hard against the cloth, begging to be seen, not a difficult thing to comply; being at direct eye level and large enough that it fills her view almost completely.

                “Free him.”

                It doesn’t need explaining and Margaery doesn’t rush her, the three of them become statues for a long time; Sansa is breathing through her teeth again, with trembling hands she pulls at his breeches until they slip a half-dozen inches down his thighs.

                “Ahh,” Sansa looks up to see the Ho- _Ser Clegane’s_ throat bobbing as he swallows.

                “Free him, Sansa.”

                She does the same to his smallclothes. It springs out, twitching as if alive, as if it has a mind of its own. She stares at it, long and hard. The mask slips from his clutch and lands atop his sheathed sword and dagger. It is not bent even a little.

                “Oh my…” Margaery’s approval hums through the room, gives her a small thrill, “Take him in hand.”

                She complies, the fastest thing she’s done thus far; the knuckles on his hands turn white and he moans. It’s so warm against her palm, she enjoys looking at it there, her fingers like snow against his sun-kissed skin and dark curls, enjoys the feel of him, silky and firm all at once, she tightens her grip and his hips thrust.

                “Don’t move, Clegane.”

                He stills.

                “Stroke him.”

                Sansa falters, unsure of herself, she looks up but his eyes are still closed off to her, head tilted to the ceiling, she glances at Margaery who smiles kindly. She gets up to crouch behind her, wraps her hand over hers at his shaft, shows her how to do it, instructs her to touch his thigh with her other hand, fondle his balls if she’s feeling brave enough. She’s not. And she’s glad when Margaery doesn’t press the issue, instead stepping back a pace or two.

                “Watch her.” It is not a command for her this time.

                He swallows, once, twice. Lowers his head. Opens his eyes.


	9. Sandor: King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cut cover, take that test  
> Hold courage to your chest  
> Don't wanna wait for you  
> Don't wanna have to lose  
> All that I've compromised  
> to feel another high  
> I've got to keep it down tonight  
> And oh, oh, oh  
> I was a king under your control.  
> \- Years & Years

**_Stop_**.

                It’s on his tongue, it’s right fucking there. Say it. Then say it again. Keep saying it. He can’t. It’s stuck. Honeyed mouth, lips open but teeth clenched. Couldn’t say it before, will never be able to say it now. Should have kept his eyes shut. Should have stayed away. He’s ruined. Ruined forever. If someone were to shoot an arrow through this window and pierce his heart, they would be doing him a favour. He’d die a happy and complete man.

                The little bird is on her knees, blue eyes looking up through thick lashes, hands on his cock and his thigh, stroking him slow enough that he’d call her a tease if he thought she were doing so intentionally. But she isn’t, and that makes it all the more exhausting. To hold back. To keep himself in check. To remember that they were not the only bloody people in this damned room. In this damned city.

                The garden-bitch could spontaneously combust and he’d be none the wiser.

                She halts in her movements and he is altogether frustrated and relieved. Until she lowers herself and presses her lips against his head, her pink tongue lapping over him; it’s wet and hot and, Gods be good, _he_ could spontaneously combust and be none the wiser.

                “ _Sansa!_ ” Margaery’s reprimand shocks them both.

                She jerks back, red-faced, hands tight.

                “I- I’m sorry?” So confused, she’s not the only one.

                “Don’t be, I am just surprised, continue if you like.”

                There is a long moment, she has the choice now to stop and he cannot wait for her to do so, to let this agonising episode end.

                Her mouth latches back onto him and he can’t hold back the growl. His nails have long since passed the pressing of half-moon indents, his knuckles crack and he feels blood seep between his fingers. She holds the base and kisses the tip, sometimes her tongue licks along him, and he could peak like a fucking green-boy, but he _can’t_ because the garden-bitch is right there, judging him, judging her.

                “Touch her.”

                Glaring at their tormenter, he wipes his bloodied hands on his cloak, unclasps it, letting it fall about them in a puddle, pushes against the back of her head, tenderly, urgently, relishing every inch of himself sliding into her mouth. He’s aware of the sounds he’s making, can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed about it, not right now.

                “Fuck, Sansa, you’re amazing,” his words are rushed, low in his throat, they bring a change to the girl and she hums approvingly around him, he twists tendrils of her hair around his fingers, massaging her scalp, her eyes roll to the back of her head; Margaery’s hands join his. He would shove her away, _would_ , if it didn’t illicit such a reaction. She sucked deeper, swirling her tongue faster. Margaery kneels beside her, unlacing her bodice and freeing her breasts. “Gods.”

                Prim, painted nails play with her nipples, already standing to attention, tugging and twisting, he would kick her, _would_ , if it wasn’t causing Sansa to groan with her lips nearly pressed to his balls. Moving his hips, he has to bite his lip when he feels himself hit the back of her throat, she’s shivering, her hand brushes along the inside of his thighs and she gives a pinch producing a snarl; his digits digging into the nape of her neck.

                Blue eyes open and his pleasure is ripped from him, his limbs shaking, head thrown back. He howls. Thinks he says her name. She doesn’t falter. Swallows him completely. Pulls back, licks her lips.

                Completely.

                Utterly.

                Fucking.

_Ruined_.

                “Did you like that?” Margaery tweaks her nipple.

                “Yes,” her watery eyes don’t leave his until the garden-bitch pinches her hard, sees the pain flash across her features, he pushes the garden-bitch now – it’s gentle but she’s unsuspecting and topples back. He lifts his little bird onto the bed behind them, practically throwing her like a ragdoll. She yelps, bodice loosening, the lace holding it together now loose around her waist and – as if a spell has been broken – blinks slowly as if just waking from a dream. She looks up at him, blush spreading across her skin like sweet jam across cake; looks down at herself, blinks again. Hands flying to her mouth she lets out a sob. Why? Why? _Why, why, why, why, **why**_?

                He tucks himself away, laces her up, adorns his cloak and scabbard once again. Her eyes stay downcast.

                “Happy, are you?” The bitten words are thrown behind him, he has to give it to the bitch; she has the sense to look guilty.

                “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it, Dog.” She has some spark to look him in the eye, rounding on him, “I thought she wanted you, too.”

                Ah. Bugger. That hurt.

                “Why the fuck would you think that, you stupid cunt?”

                He doesn’t know who he’s talking to. Is there a mirror in here?

                Grey eyes meeting his, flaring with anger, she opens her mouth to speak but the little bird pushes past, she unbars the door with a quickness that takes them both by surprise. He catches the frame before it can swing shut and follows after her, grabbing her arm and slamming the slab of wood closed.

                “I’ll take you back to your chambers.” His teeth are gritted so hard, there’s a layer of red shrouding his vision. “It’s late now. You should be accompanied, even if it is not the company you wish.”

                Her eyes flicker to his face and then outside, clearly shaken by the dark blue of the sky and the crescent of the moon. They’d all missed their meals. She’s probably hungry. She nods once and he leads the way to the kitchens, keeping close to her side, shielding her from the gazes of any lurking knights or handmaidens alike.

                Perhaps she is expecting an apology; she won’t get one. Not from him. Sandor Clegane has many regrets, but that, back there, is far from one of them. Gods be good, he’d do it again if he could, already hard just thinking about it. He grabs some leftovers from the abandoned tables, shoves a wineskin into her hands which she gulps down. Looking sideways, he eyes her suspiciously; the tears have stopped at least.

                They reach the door to her chambers too soon and yet, not soon enough.  He wonders, not for the first time, why she is so singularly marked for these episodes they always seem to find themselves in? Subjected to the monsters. It must be her. It _must_ be. How and why, he has no idea. If he believed, he would call her cursed. Some vengeful hag that envied her beauty, maybe, or a crone that loathed her trusting nature, seeking to put an end to it. For that he was sorry, he wanted her trust, felt he had earned some of it, might be that he blew that all away when he blew his seed down her throat. Worth it. Right now, anyway. It’s something he would miss tomorrow.

                She looks up at him and his eyebrows shoot up in response to her sapphire blues brimming with questions; his heart leaps to his throat, his stomach on the floor. She shuffles from foot to foot, hands wringing. He’s ready, ready for her fury, for her hatred, braces himself for it.

                “I- I apologize,” her teeth tug on her lower lip, breaking the skin, making it bleed, “Um, thank you… for… um,” she holds her arms around herself, takes a step back, a step forward, shakes her head, stares at her feet, hair falling around her face, “Was I- was it… did you like it?”

                _Seven buggering Hells_.

                The fuck is she thinking? What did it matter that he liked it? He thought that much was obvious, besides. She peeks up at him, face the same colour as her hair and he’s glad when she winces, retreats, fear making her hands tremble when she reaches for her door.

                “No, o-of course, I am… I-” She pushes it open, feet tripping over the other, mumbling all the while, “Inexperienced and- well, I’m sure you’ve, of course, I should, err-” She’s still babbling as the door closes.

                He doesn’t leave until he hears her bar the door, places the food he had gathered on the threshold, thinks he can still hear her broken words.

_Lost her fucking mind._

                Marching down the hallway, his fist collides with the wall. The pain is sharp, it dulls the rest. He does it again.


	10. Sansa: Wolves and Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re bleeding open,  
> From wolves and roses,  
> Timeless, talk less,  
> Plots are winding down and out,  
> I can’t seem to close my eyes tonight,  
> Dreaming I am by your side  
> Tonight,  
> I’ll be working on myself,  
> Because I don’t want nobody else,  
> So I, I will fight.   
> \- Bloodsent

                Margaery greets her the next day as if nothing happened. At first, she is too overcome with shame to reciprocate, choosing to retreat to her chambers; she is given some of the masks before she takes her leave, four men’s and three ladies, along with bundles of the mixed textiles from Margaery’s room. They will need finite decorations and it will take her a long time to perfect them. She’s grateful, able to spend the whole day in her rooms with the small stash of food Ser Clegane had gathered for her from the night before, and if anyone were to ask it is a good enough excuse that they would not press for her company or think her rude for isolating herself.

                The task itself is also most welcome, creative enough that she even enjoys it but still laborious enough that her mind cannot wander. Yes, she’s very appreciative. She puts one of the female masks aside, this one will be hers, there are enough metal scraps left over that she can make another for the template designs. She picks up one of the larger, male frames, adds a piece underneath the right eye – left if someone were to wear it – estimating where the jaw would end but not worrying if it extends over. Needle in hand, she applies a black cloth over, wraps it in satin, threads her design onto it, a silver birch with yellow leaves on the right jaw-piece extending up and across, gold filigree descending from the left corner around the eye, the leaves of the pattern and the gold nearly touch in the middle, on the bridge where the nose would be. She moves on to the next one.

                When finished, Sansa is well chuffed with her work; lace and ribbon massacred around her, fingers tingling, but it is worth it – the masks are simply beautiful, sitting in an array of golds, silvers, and blacks. Their designs are intricate but nothing outlandish, most adorned with yellow and red and blue, some purples and pinks, a single green design on black for one of the men’s masks. She wonders about the handmaidens tasked with creating duplicates; how well will they replicate her work?

                Her own is the last to be done, similar to one of the other ladies’ – the whole point is to seem mysterious and lose your identity, and, if you didn’t look too closely, they are indistinguishable. Silver silk base with lavender and cornflower blue lace trimming that would sit along the cheekbones when worn, stalks of lilac threaded around the top half of the eyes, with stems of the purple flower intertwining after being dried and pressed, gathering to a point at the temples and looking almost like the ears of a fox. She places some black feathers on hers alone, almost hidden within the purple, the separated strands tickling her forehead when she puts it on and appraises herself in a looking-glass.

                It's perfect. The colours work better than she would have dreamed, her eyes shining like sapphires; her hair clashes slightly with the purple but it will be dyed black on the night, as will all the Ladies in Margaery's party. Her eyebrow twitches when she thinks of her friend from Highgarden, ego still bruised with a swollen trust, too sensitive to think about right now. She shies away from it. Glancing out the window, she’s happy to note that the sun is still high in the sky, she has worked quicker than she first suspected.

                Sansa gnaws on her lip, the masks are complete and she is proud of her work, but she can’t help but feel jaded; it would be better to share her satisfaction with her friend. Placing her own mask on her dresser and gathering the leftovers, including the scraps of fabric, she heads towards Margaery’s chambers, trying to keep her mind distracted with thoughts of dancing and glittering masks. If the Lady can pretend like nothing happened, mayhaps she can, too.

                Margaery opens the door, a beam flashing across her cheeks when she sees it’s Sansa, she steps back, door open wide, waiting. Hovering on the threshold, Sansa thinks about just handing the bundle in her arms over and returning, but she wonders what that may do to their friendship, if she leaves now, she may never be able to mend their familiarity, torn as it is by the outcome of yesterday. It doesn’t skip her notice that Margaery does not touch her, does not haul her in as she thought she might. She’s thankful.

                “You have finished all your designs!” Margaery is incredulous, plucking the green mask from Sansa’s arms to examine it, “They are _beautiful_ , you are so talented.”

                Sansa wants to believe that her flattery is coming from a place of guilt, but the sincerity which leaks into her words cannot be denied.

                “Thank you, my Lady,” heat pooling in her cheeks, gratification flourishing.

                “I have only done two of the seven! You’re quick, too.”

                “If it please you, my Lady, I can help… if you would like?”

                Margaery beams again, sitting where they had the night before, Sansa does her best not to think about it. The designs her friend shows her are lovely, not as intricate but beautiful all the same – one of them has the signature rose petals painted gold adorning the sides, she’d also made a matching hairpin that she explains will sit high in a complicated braid twisted on their heads, their hair will be styled the same. She asks if she may practice so as to show the handmaidens how she wishes it to be done, Sansa complies.

                Sitting in front of Margaery’s mirror, fingers brushing through her strands, Sansa cannot help but relax into her hold, the back of the chair reaches the top of her shoulders and does nothing to hold back the ends of her tendrils sweeping along her neck as Margaery twists and braids, fastening each section in place. It tickles.

                “I should have brought a handmaiden in to show them how it is to be done,” her words are muffled by the pins in her mouth, “But at least it is practice.”

                Sansa watches her friend in the mirror, her fingers delicate and eyes full of concentration, as Sansa had been with the masks. _She must be enjoying this, as I had with my decorating_. They all have their crafts; it must be harder for Margaery to express herself in this way as ladies always had someone to do it for them.

                “My mother used to play with my hair, she would ask me to do hers, too,” she meets her eyes in the mirror momentarily, before continuing in her work, “It is when I feel closest to her.”

                “Do you miss her?”

                “All the time,” Her hands halt in their movements, “As I’m sure you do with yours.”

                Sansa doesn’t know what to say, can only swallow the lump in her throat and nod.

                “We will light candles for them on the Day of the Seven, mayhaps we can go alone to Blackwater Bay and send them out to the ocean, would you like that? We might make garlands dedicated to their memory?”

                Sansa would like that very much, she says so, “And one for Robb and my Father, also?”

                “Of course, sweet girl. We may pray for your other brothers and your sister too, perhaps?”

                “I pray for them every day.” The words are out before she can examine them, Margaery’s hands still again.

                “Yes, obviously, that was a stupid suggestion, forgive me.”

                Sansa turns to look at her fully, her friend steps back as if she had just brandished a knife, she’s never seen her look so unsure of herself before, “I meant nothing by it, Margaery, I truly value your kind words; it is just so hard for me to think about sometimes, I apologise if I made you feel-.”

                “No, it is me, Sansa, I am so sorry, I should never ha- “

                “The fault is mine-”

                “No,” spoken in unison they let out a small puff of amusement and then they are squeezing each other’s hands, the touch breaking a seal. They laugh and they cry together, wrapping their arms in a somewhat awkward hug, it is forgiveness and understanding, acceptance and apologies.

                They wipe their eyes clear with the backs of their hands, laughing at their silliness and the uncomfortable situation, shaking their heads. It feels as if a weight has been lifted from Sansa’s shoulders, or maybe as if some hot air has been let out of the room, she can’t quite explain it.

                Admiring Margaery’s handiwork in the mirror, they test the pin in different places, deciding on scooping a section of hair and creating a sort of loop which they pin high on the side, angled so as to best to catch the shine. After pouring them both a large goblet of wine, they talk about which dances they would like to do, about who would be in their party and those they wish weren’t, about their mothers and the many things they taught them. They work on the rest of the masks and Margaery makes Sansa a hairpin of her own, this one with small amethysts and iolites in a crescent moon shape, and for this blissful day, they are simply two friends, talking and joking and sipping wine as they work. It is late when they finish, the sun since set and the sky now purpling.

                They leave their completed craftmanship and stand to deliver them to someone who can imitate their work for the rest of the High Court, only, when they rise from their seated positions, they both sway on their feet. The room spins, and Sansa has to clutch the arm of a plush sofa to keep from toppling over causing Margaery to giggle and stagger which only makes both girls laugh harder.

                A vicious cycle ensues: one laughing at the other until they are taking shuddering breaths to try and calm themselves down. Sansa is the first to steady, her stomach rumbling loudly.

                “It is not much more than we normally drunk, I mean drink, but the emptiness of our bellies must have made us drunk.”

                Margaery nods, “We must go and get something to it- eat.”

                Sansa goes to wrap their arms together but Margaery holds a hand up, “I know it is much to ask but- the kitchen holds no lure for me tonight, there is a small place on the Street of Flour, which does a delicious gingerbread; they do lemon cakes too-”

                Sansa’s gasp fills the room, her hand raising to her mouth, “But I _love_ lemon cakes.”

                Margaery giggles, “I know you do, my sweet, that is why I said it. The baker there likes me very much and even if he is closed, I think a few coins will persuade him to spare a bite or two.”

                Sansa’s head moves up and down with such fervency that some of her hair spills about her.

                The Lady from Highgarden marches – stumbles – to her wardrobe and pulls out two dark cloaks and two simple dresses, they quickly switch out their styles, opting for loose plaits and pulling their hoods up high. Sansa thumbs the pretty crescent moon brooch, placing it on the dresser, pulls her hood higher, takes Margaery’s hand when she offers it. They grab a wineskin from the kitchen and out they go.

                Cool night air breezes along her skin, condensing some of the heady bubble that has encompassed her, although that doesn’t really amount to much.

                “What about the Gold Cloaks? Will they not try to stop us?”

                “They will not know it is us, Sansa.”

                She nods. Right now Margaery’s word is gospel. Of _course_ no one will identify them. She sips from the flask.

                They walk towards the gates in as straight a line as they can, muttering and sniggering, heads pressed together. Sansa’s eyes keep darting back and forth before she’s suddenly yanked from her friends’ clutches by a warm hand on her shoulder. The force propelling her into a wall of stomach. Her neck cranes, hood falling and when she sees who it is she smiles, big and wide.


	11. Sandor: Sugar Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every night you trick me into your arms,  
> But you never stay,  
> when I awake, no,  
> Every time I feel your thoughts alone,  
> And it's such a shame,  
> you were gone so long.  
> When you rolled, your heart's hardly beating,  
> But it's hard to know when you're young,  
> I'll never forget loving you sweetly,  
> Your sugar still burns on my tongue.  
> \- Jaymes Young

                “Ser Clegane!”

                She sings his name, sweet breath fanning over his face, he has to close his eyes for a second.

                “You’re drunk.” He puts as much vehemence into his voice as he can, a difficult thing to do when she’s staring at him like that.

                “So… are… you?” She pokes his chest with a tiny pale finger.

                “Not tonight.”

                “That’s a first,” She smirks, he glowers.

                “Back to your room with you, before someone else comes along to give you a good scare.”

                “There is no one out here scarier than you, Hound,” the garden-bitch pouts. He wonders about changing her nickname, she’s not so much a garden anymore as a thorn, a fucking prickly thing growing right up into his-

                “That is true,” the little bird nods animatedly, looking delighted by the fact, “Besides, we are to get some lemon cakes from the Street of Flour.” She tiptoes, wobbling, before resting her hand on his shoulder, eyes wide, she licks her lips and continues in a conspiratorial whisper, “Did you know that lemon cakes are my favourite?”

                “The whole of bloody Westeros knows,” His speech is hoarse with her face filling his view, and he doesn’t know where to look, can’t decide between her eyes and her lips. A warm smile reveals dimples in her cheeks, she leans into him, his hands automatically go to her waist under her ugly cloak, unsure if he’s about to pull her closer or push her away. He knows one thing for certain though, he rather likes drunk Sansa. The choice is ultimately taken from him when Margaery tugs Sansa from his grasp, pulling her hood back up and tucking the auburn away, like she’s caring for a child. They take turns sipping from the wineskin.

                _Bugger this_. He grabs the flask from her, taking a long pull. It’s sweet, something more expensive than he’s used to.

                “Come with us?”

                “Why?” He can’t regret the question, though he didn’t mean to ask it. She grimaces, as if she were thinking the same thing.

                “Well… it is a lot to ask but I would feel safer in your company,” Laughing loudly at that, he shakes his head, “There will be cake?” Of course, cake is paramount, the epitome of life. What is life without cake?

                He chuckles, trying to find the fury that usually accompanies him, but he can't, not tonight. She is being far too sweet with those wide eyes and swollen lips.

                “All right, little bird, I'll go with you.”

                Margaery’s eyes roll when Sansa beams; glaring at him from the corner of her eye, fuck her though. Draping an arm around Sansa's shoulders, the girls clasping hands again, he takes another pull of wine and they saunter to the Street of Flour for some buggering cake.

                When they are on the narrower, cobbled streets, his arm slides from her shoulders and he steps in place behind them, eyes watchful, muscles tense, seeking anyone that might ruin this for them. There aren’t many people about this area of town when the sun has set, so their whispers and giggles almost echo around them. Every so often Sansa will glimpse behind to look up at him, always smiling, cheeks rosy. What he’d give to know what she's thinking...

                The bakery is glowing golden, busy with sounds of scraping and crackling fire. Shouts, loud and joyful prick their ears – Margaery raps her knuckles along the wall and wooden door as she walks along. He waits in the shadows.

                “No one will pay _us_ any mind; we look just like all the other smallfolk tonight.” Sansa whispers when she sees him stop.

                “If you're smallfolk, I'm the fucking King.” She laughs at his jape, twisting a loose strand around her finger, “Go on, get in girl, I'll be right here.” _Like a good dog._ He falls roughly against the wall, black cloak snagging the brick, she waivers a moment before following Margaery through the door.

                Their laughs are loud, he takes another pull of wine. The anger seeps into him now, away from the chirping and shrouded in darkness; this is a stupid risk to take for a sweet-tooth. He meant what he said, you can dress a Lady like Sansa in nothing but hay, she would still have an unmistakable Highborn air about her. They did well not to harbour any glances from the useless prats guarding the Keep, it would be harder to avoid when they returned.

                Closing his eyes, sighing heavily, he tilts his head back. He's tired, more so than he would like to admit. Unable to sleep soundly recently, he has taken to walking through the streets, wanting nothing more than to fuck and collapse into some whore. But he can’t. When he said he was ruined he spoke the truth, if he thinks about pushing his cock into anyone that it isn’t Sansa Stark, he feels… nothing. Undoubtedly, he didn’t feel anything before her; it had always been a means to an end. But now that he knows how it _could_ be, how it _should_ be, he doesn’t want anything else. She is an exquisite burst of sugar on his tongue, demanding in its sweetness and dampening all other tastes he may have had. He should have stayed away.

                Wrapped in thoughts, he misses the sounds of them exiting the bakery, only roused when something soft presses to his lips, he reels back with a suddenness that makes his head smack against the wall, eyes flying open.

                “Oops, sorry,” she presses the loaf to his lips again, “It is currant loaf.”

                Waving the torn bread under his nose, he snakes his hand around her wrist, stares at her when he takes the soft piece between his teeth. It’s lovely. Sweet and savoury.

                “I want to play a game,” Margaery swaps the gingerbread in her hand for the wineskin in Sandor’s, taking a deep glug. He moves off the wall to stand squarely in front of her.

                “Not another of your bloody games. Thought you learned from last time?”

                “It won’t be anything like last time, Hound.”

                “No. We need to get you both back. You’ve had your fun, and your food. Enough of this folly.”

                “But Folly is the name of the game!”

                “Horseshit! You just want some fucking attention; you want to play with people? Want to turn them into your little dolls? Joffrey’s rubbing off on you.”

                “How dare you!” A slender nail is pointed in his face, the thorny-bitch’s features matching his: snarled lips and fiery eyes, her face coloured by wine and anger, “I am _trying_ -”

                “Trying to get a practice at torture, huh? Want to kill her for your _beloved_ , is that it? Why else would you near push her from the walk?”

                “I would have held on for days! I would have gone with her if you had not come!”

                “Is that so? You know, I’m surprised she wants to be around you at all.”

                “I could say the same about you!”

                “She need only say the words-”

                “What do you say, Sansa? Shall we ditch the dog?”

                They both turn to look at her, but only emptiness greets them.

                Panic. It grips him so fiercely that his head spins. _What the FUCK?_ They share a quick look, at once sobered, rushing through the streets, heads darting down alleys, eyes searching. He doesn’t know what to do when they can’t find her. Doesn’t want to believe she can be this fucking stupid. But she’s inebriated, might be that she’s not thinking straight, they weren’t so caught up in their argument that someone would have taken her. Were they?

                No. He didn’t think so.

                “Where _is_ she?” Margaery’s voice reaches a pitch so high; it makes him cringe.

                “Hush. We can’t very well go ‘round shouting for her. She’ll be here. Somewhere.” He can’t keep the doubt from his words.

                Tugging on her cloak, she stalks in a different direction, he follows, hawk-eyed and racing heart. Sweat beads along his forehead, Margaery is trembling, breath coming short, almost as if their increasing anxiousness is feeding off each other, building in momentum with each footfall.

                “Crumbs!”

                Margaery has suffered a seizure, he’s sure of it. He shakes her, head snapping back and forth, hood falling down. _Gods give me strength_. Wrenching away she points to the ground, “ _Crumbs_!”

                Without another word they follow the trail of broken bread, and sure enough, there she is, sitting primly on a step stroking some stray fucking cat, murmuring to it, feeding it.

                “ _Seven Hells, Sansa_.” He growls, huffing at the same time as Margaery, they pull her from her seated position, she sways while they inspect her, the damned cat circling their legs.

                “Enough of this,” it is all but a bellow, he sweeps Sansa into his arms with a yelp from both girls and stalks away, Margaery hurrying after them, he lowers his voice to a whisper, “Are you hurt?”

                “No. I am tired,” Clenching the cloak on his chest, she presses her face into his shoulder, “I enjoyed the -hic- way you both squabbled over me. Is there more wine?”

                “You’ve had plenty.” He chuckles at the way her whole body jumps with each spasm of hiccup.

                “I meant for you, you’re more agree-hic-able when you’ve got something sweet in -hic- you.”

                “I’ve had enough sweet tonight.”

                Margaery barks, he wants to throttle her.

                “Stay by me, keep your eyes peeled, and by the Seven, keep _quiet_.”

                The garden-bitch presses her lips into a thin line, clasping her hands behind her back, eyes glassy. They stick to the walls, remain in shadows, listen to every step the gold buggers take, and go in the opposite direction. Sansa’s body still ripples every so often, but her hiccups are silent. Her eyes on him are a palpable touch, caressing his skin, he holds her closer, pulls her in tight to his chest.

                Together, they scurry towards the garden-bitch’s chambers, he would laugh at their movements if his heart wasn’t pounding so hard. Reaching for her door, the _Lady of Thorns_ looks back at the little bird, squeezes her hand before kissing it, Sansa hiccups, smiles, tells her how wonderful a day she’s had.

                “I will see you on the morrow, sweet thing,” Margaery whispers before placing a hard look on him, “See that you get her back safely.”

                The door closes quietly behind her, they listen to the wooden beam slide into place and then make their way to the next destination.

                Walking past the kitchens – why did their chambers have to be so bloody far apart – Sandor is surprised to hear a clattering of pans. A pair of heavy footsteps are coming right towards them. Sansa’s grip tightens, another tremor wracking her body. He slips them into a small alcove; it’s not the most concealed area, the torches along the wall are lit and it’s spacious enough to see shapes, but he angles her into the corner, places her on her feet, presses against her body with his, feels her breath fan over his face, strands of hair brushing his cheeks. Glazed eyes meet his and they listen, he doesn’t know whose heartbeat he can hear.

                “Who’s that there?” The voice is loud, Blount, maybe?

                “Fuck off.”

                “Clegane? Got yourself a whore, have you?” Something flashes in Sansa’s eyes; he can’t discern what it is. He grunts in confirmation.

                “Want to share?”

                The growl that’s ripped from his throat isn’t a pretence.

                “Come on, she doesn’t sound like she’s having a good time with you, anyway. Would only be fair to her.”

                “Get your own cunt, cunt.”

                Footsteps advance, he can feel the little bird’s heart hammering against her chest, eyes blown wide, mouth slack, she tiptoes, pressing her mouth to his. He dissolves. Hand dipping inside her hood, he cups her cheek, her usually cool skin is warm with wine tonight, her lips sweet. Groaning, his tongue slides along her seam, she opens for him, sighing deeply when he enters, her hands tug on the clothes of his chest, on tiptoes and crushing him close to her with a bruising force. He yields to her, moulding to her commands, his thumb scrapes her jaw, palm moving to circle her throat; she whimpers when he squeezes lightly, so lightly.

                “All right, I get it, a dog’s got to have a bone, ha!” He’s torn back to the alcove, pulling away from her, struggling to take her all in when she’s veiled in his shadow. Eyelids hooded, she’s staring at his lips and has he mentioned how totally fucking ruined he is? Chuckling darkly, he throws his head back, clean air washing around him, listens intently to the retreating steps. Sansa pants beneath him, hiccups gone. He hoists her back into his arms when the echoes fade away, stalking through the hallways with his cock punching against the material of his breeches. Doesn’t stop until he’s entering her chambers.

                He turns away, giving her privacy while she dresses into her nightshift. Helping her into bed and smirking when she stumbles, he draws the silk sheets up high around her, warming when he feels the cool touch of her hand against his. She pushes the sheets back down to her knees, complaining about the heat.

                "Thank you for coming with me- with _us_ tonight,” her voice is a low murmur, “I am glad I was there to taste those lemon cakes.”

                He chuckles, takes her wrist to his mouth, kisses her pulse, shoves both of them under the silk he pulls around her hips.

                “Maybe they are all I eat now, maybe I will get fat, and then no one will want to marry me no matter how wonderful my claim is.”

                He thinks about it, imagines Sansa with chubby cheeks and a round belly, “If you got fat you would still be lovelier than at least half the Ladies in this damned city, if not all.”

                She chuckles, “You are far too kind to me,” lowers herself under the sheets that he keeps pulling up.

                “And you are far too trusting.”

                “You think me stupid, I know, but I cannot help it; how can I not trust you when you are here with me like this?”

                “I didn't mean me, though now you mention it I could have a nefarious purpose.”

                “Could be that you do,” he smirks at her speech, now similar to his, something tugging inside him, “Who doesn't though? I would rather _your_ nefarious purpose than Ser Baelish or King Joffrey’s.”

                “Hmm.” He doesn't like that.

                “Maybe _I_ have nefarious plans for _you_.” She laughs, hand creeping up his arm.

                When her fist reaches the clasp of his cloak, she yanks on it, instead of bringing him down she pulls herself up to him, kisses him, it's sloppy and he doesn't respond. Wants to put her to bed and go to his own; stop the chaos in his chest.

                Hands on her waist, he holds her, neither pushing or pulling, then her hands are on his cheeks, and she sighs – her breath is so sweet, expensive wine and lemon sugar, lips like honey, he devours her. _Gods_. She reduces him to nothing more than desire personified, his head moves in time with his tongue delving deeper into her mouth, she whimpers, sinking lower into the bed, never breaking contact. His hands are in her hair, body on top of her, the sheet rucked around her waist, she feels so fucking tiny.

                Taking her hands in his, he fixes them over her head, continuing his onslaught of lips and teeth and tongue. As lovely as it is to feel her fingertips against his skin, it makes it all the more difficult to stop. She writhes, body shivering, letting loose a long, deep groan that makes his muscles flex painfully. He breaks away.

                “Gods be good, little bird, you really are sinister.”

                “Am I? I think we should keep going, to be sure.” She struggles in his grip.

                “You're intoxicated,” he shakes his head, “Best that we stop before there's no going back.”

                She pouts and he nips it, smiling at her shock. He has to leave. Now.

                The air is refreshing when he finally pulls himself from the little bird’s room; he’d slunk from her bed, rested with his hand on the door for what felt like an eternity, just listening to her deep breathing, basking in her scent which is all over him still, he hadn’t watched her, it was too dark for that, anyway, but the steady inhales and exhales had soothed the chaos in his chest. He’d had so much of her tonight. Smiles that weren’t meant for him that he would relish in for the rest of his days. Stolen kisses and the feel of her tremulous body under his. _Gods, how he wishes._

                He tries to find the anger. He can’t. Can only see blue eyes. Can only feel his aching body fighting every step he takes away from her. He’s treading through the thickest mud, swimming against a current, cantering through a storm. The war inside him is no war at all, the campaign was lost the moment he saw her; she is the blinding sun, the rising tide, the lightning strike. He will burn, he will drown, he will blister. He would – for her.

_What a soft cunt I’ve become._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: Thank you so much for your patience! I have suddenly become very busy - barely enough time to even edit and post this chapter, but I will do my best to keep updating for you <3  
> This is one of my favourite moments, it's just such a sweet little moment for them all. A good night that I think is very much needed!  
> But, you know it won't last.  
> Happy reading!  
> Much love x


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